


the hunt

by theoreticlove



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fourth Age, Jealousy, M/M, Most Of The Original Characters Are Minor Maiar And The Other Is The Antagonist, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reembodiment, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:03:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticlove/pseuds/theoreticlove
Summary: celegorm is reembodied and oromë welcomes him back with open arms and a heart full of love. not all agree with the vala's choice of lover.





	1. would you have me?

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first multi-chapter fic so expect infrequent and irregular updates (i'll do my best, promise!)

The lord of the Hunt was bored. 

It was easy to see, as he lounged in his chair, at the head of the overly large wooden table, plucking at the string of his bow. Every so often, between strums of the lone string, he glanced over to the seat next to him, at his right hand side. There was something across his face when he looked at it- a profound longing, perhaps, or a deep sadness, lasting barely a second before the lord tore his eyes away and emotionlessness returned to his face.

Hrávo did not know who used to occupy the seat. He had asked, a few times, to mixed responses from the maiar of the Hunt. _A lover_, he was told. _Someone most beloved to Oromë_, on another occasion. Some, when he had asked, had simply smiled sadly at him and shaken their heads.

After those answers, he was hardly going to ask Oromë himself. 

The seat had, presumably, been empty long before Hrávo had joined the Hunt. Perhaps even before he had been born, the son of Noldor newly returned to Valinor, a few years after the war of the ring. 

Oromë certainly never spoke of the mysterious person who was perhaps a lover, perhaps more, but nevertheless clearly more important that anyone else. But those glances were telling, and so was the way he would, on rare occasions, walk to the table, and touch the top of the chair, as if lost in thought.

Eventually, Oromë sighed, and stood briefly before crouching to look under the table. By the foot of the mysterious empty seat was Huan, lying down yet still large enough to be touching the top of the table. Oromë ran a gentle hand through the mass of fur. 

“Would you like to go for a walk, Huan? I could use one.”

The hound nodded and crawled out from under the table. Oromë laughed as he saw the copious amount of fur left behind. Huan seemed to give him an annoyed look, although Hrávo had never been able to read Huan as well as he would like.

“You can shed outside next time, okay?” Oromë said, smiling for what seemed to be the first time all day. It made the corner of Hrávo’s own lips turn up, and his heart swell at the sight of Oromë’s eyes lit up with joy. 

His smile had always been brilliant. But as Huan forcefully bumped his head against Oromë’s chest, Hrávo thought that it was nothing compared to his laugh. A deep, booming sound, echoing around the room. The way he tossed his head back, his antlers barely avoiding smashing into something. 

“Okay, okay,” said Oromë to Huan. “Let’s go then.”

Off they were, Huan’s tail wagging as the door swung open, the autumn breeze, cold and crisp and smelling faintly of warm cider, blowing into the cabin for only a few seconds before it swung shut again, as both lord and hound left. 

Hrávo’s smile remained. 

***

Oromë walked through the woods in silence, growing shorter, then taller and shorter again to avoid getting his antlers caught in the branches, leaves, orange and red and yellow, crunching under his feet as he moved. Huan walked beside him, usually no shorter than Oromë’s chest, and leaves fell onto the hound’s back, stuck in the grey fur. Gently, Oromë plucked them off, one by one, crushing then until they were but dust in his hand. 

They walked mindlessly, no particular destination in mind, savouring the joy of autumn. Leaves swirled around them every once in a while, and Oromë was, as always, amazed at the beauty of the seasons. How Vana and Yavanna had accomplished creating such beauty, every year since the beginning, he knew not. 

Vana. His wife, but not his wife. Not his love-partner, in any way. She hadn’t been, not for a long time. He loved her, yes- but not in the way that Manwe loved Varda, nor the way that Tulkas loved Nessa. Not in the way that he loved- that he had loved- not the way he felt for him. 

She had not captured his heart, his soul, his very being the way that he had. Nor, he supposed, had she ever smashed it to bits like he had when he had left. And a pain so terrible had never overwhelmed him like when he had died. When he had died, and Oromë had been doomed to know that he would never see him again. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Huan nudged his side. Oromë looked down, and found that the hound’s eyes were sad. 

“I miss him,” Oromë said. 

Huan whined his agreement. 

They walked some more, Oromë lost in thought once more. 

It had been thousands of years, and here he was, still pining for someone he could no longer have. But, Eru above, how he missed him. 

They wandered into a clearing, and finally Oromë’s missing and longing and pain was replaced. In the clearing lay a memory, clear as day. 

_He lay on the ground, smiling and laughing as he squirmed while Huan licked his face. The hound had outgrown the hunter swiftly, and Huan was determined to take advantage of this, or so it seemed._

_Gently, Oromë laughed as he watched, and his hunter’s eyes focused on him, lit up with joy. _

_“Huan,” the hunter had said, straightening his arms to put some distance between himself and his dog, “Go get Oromë. Come now, it’ll be funny.”_

_Just like that, Oromë had found himself being knocked over by Huan and facing the same predicament he had originally only been watching. _

_In the background, there was laughter. Then, next to him, lay his hunter, back on the ground, looking over at Oromë. There was mirth in his eyes, but something else, too. Love, Oromë thought, as he leaned over to kiss him._

_"Gross. You smell like dog.”_

_“You are in the same situation that I am. Yet here I am, still prepared to kiss you. Will you not have me?”_

_The hunter rolled his eyes. _

_“What kind of stupid question is that?”_

_And their lips had met. _

A faint smile played on Oromë’s lips at the thought. 

“Oromë,” came a voice behind him. The Great Rider started, turning around quickly.

“Námo,” he said, trying to recover from his surprise as quickly as possible. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Oromë had never known Námo to be one for soft smiles. But the expression on their face was one that Oromë could not identify in any other way. 

“I thought you may not want to find out from a second hand source.”

“Find out what?”

Námo’s smile grew and so did Oromë’s nerves.

“The sons of Fëanor have been reembodied. Including your hunter.”

If Oromë had a beating heart, it would have stopped working then and there. 

“You’re joking,” he said. 

“I never joke.”

“I thought he- I thought they were damned?”

“I never joke, but I do sometimes change my mind.”

“When?”

“Tonight. But I would save the great feast I know you will plan for a week or so from now. Let him get accustomed to life again. Then you can do whatever you want.”

Oromë could have sworn Námo winked before they disappeared, one with the swirl of the leaves falling. 

Slowly, as if coming back to himself, Oromë turned to Huan.

“He’s coming back.”

Huan tackled him and Oromë could not hold back his whoop of delight. He was coming back. 

***

The maiar were ecstatic, and Hrávo could not, for the life of him, figure out why. Something about a return, but Hrávo didn’t know who, exactly, was returning. Or what they were returning from.

He did know that he had never seen Oromë look happier as he dashed around the cabin, frantically checking to make sure that everything was perfect. That the food was well cooked (only a specific kind of meat, as more than one person had claimed that it was a favourite of their returner), that there was enough alcohol for everyone (“Eru above,” one of the more experienced maiar of the hunt, Alcarinë, said, “if he gets drunk at this party, I’ll send him back to- only joking, my lord Oromë. I’d never do such a thing, you know I missed him too.”), that the decor was subtle, but not so subtle that it would go unnoticed. 

Huan padded around too, helping where he could be of service, which was not very many places. Although he did arrive just in time to catch one of the maiar, who had accidentally tripped over something or other. 

“Hrávo,” said the maia that had threatened to evict the guest if he didn’t stay within a certain level of sobriety, “could you start a fire? It’ll be bound to get dark soon, and with dark comes the cold. And the cold isn’t fun when you’re trying to have a feast,” she joked, her voice sweet like honey.

“Just you wait until winter!” Another maia called with a smile. 

Hrávo chuckled and began to collect wood for the fireplace, lighting it as quickly as he could. The fire sparked to life, crackling, and soon he felt the heat of the flames against his skin. He stared into the fire, bright orange and flickering, leaving him entranced. He pictured being wrapped in a blanket, curled up against Oromë, the fire crackling until he fell asleep at the great vala’s side. 

A hand came to rest on Hrávo’s shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin, jolted out of his fantasy. Oromë looked down at him, his expression conveying both amusement and fondness. Hrávo felt his cheeks heat up despite himself.

“Is all well?” Oromë asked, his voice deep and warmer than the fire before them.

“Yes, of course, my lord. I just… lost myself in thought, I suppose.”

Oromë chuckled. “It happens to the best of us.”

Hrávo smiled up at him. 

A loud, long whistle was heard faintly in the distance, and all too soon, Oromë’s attention was no longer on Hrávo, but rather on the door. Hrávo wondered, not for the first time that day, who could possibly be so important that there was noticeable tension in Oromë’s shoulders. 

The maiar gathered round and Hrávo joined them, behind Oromë, trying to get a glimpse of the door, still shut. Hrávo could barely see, but hopefully he would be able to get a glimpse of the alleged newcomer.

When the door opened, all he saw was a bit of silver hair before Huan pounced.

“Huan!” cried a voice, ecstatic and alive, filled with joy. “Oh, buddy, I’ve missed you so very much.” 

Huan barked and the stranger laughed, bright and melodious and happy. 

“Eru above, Huan, you know that tickles, stop it! Oh, Huan.”

Hrávo wasn’t sure if he heard an apology or if it was just the wind howling. It didn’t matter, he supposed.

The stranger stood, eventually, amidst the quiet laughter of the maiar. It wasn’t often that there were any elves in the cabin, save Hrávo himself. 

Eventually, Huan backed off and the stranger stood, smiling at them all.

Oromë took a step towards him and spread his arms open.

“Welcome back,” he said. Hrávo had never heard his voice gone so soft before, so full of love. “We’ve missed you, Tyelkormo.”

Tears shone briefly in the green eyes of the third son of Fëanor as he flung himself into Oromë’s arms. 

***

Oromë shook his head as Tyelkormo fed the meat on his plate to the dog. 

“You’ve always spoiled that hound, you know,” he said. Tyelkormo laughed, taking a sip of his drink.

“Come now, ‘Ro, don't lie to your most beloved hunter! you know you spoiled him just as much. Isn’t that right, Huan?”

From under the table, Huan nodded, his head resting against Tyelkormo’s legs. 

“I did no such thing, and you both know it.”

“Ha! Alcarinë, is this true?”

The maiar looked over to them with a smile, breaking off her conversation with another maia, Cúnetamo. 

“Is what true?” She asked.

“Did Oromë truly never spoil Huan?”

Alcarinë laughed. “Oh, Tyelko, whoever told you that is the biggest liar I know.”

“I knew it!” Tyelkormo cried. Oromë rolled his eyes at him, but somehow it became a fond gesture, and Tyelkormo smiled back. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist spoiling Huan.”

“Of course, you know me so well.”

“I do, don’t I. And I’ve been dead since when, 506 FA? I suppose some things really never do change.”

“Like your exuberant and overeager personality.”

“'Tis a good thing, then, that you adore my exuberant and overeager personality. Particularly when we’re in-”

“Nope!” shouted Alcarinë. “Nope, I definitely do not want to hear the rest of that sentence.”

Laughter, the likes of which Hrávo had never seen, erupted across the table. A flicker of jealousy passed through him and he stabbed at his meat. There sat the beloved Tyelkormo, at Oromë’s right hand, calling him ‘’Ro’ as if they were best friends, as if Tyelkormo was anywhere near Oromë’s level, as if Tyelkormo was the one who deserved Oromë’s affection. 

It made Hrávo sick. Even Huan, who in one hundred and fifty years of hunting with Hrávo, had still not warmed up to him, seemed to care more for Tyelkormo that for anyone else in the room. 

He felt worse when gently, Oromë took Tyelkormo’s hand and quietly excused them both. 

“I’d like to speak with Tyelko privately, if none of you are opposed,” he said. 

“Go ahead,” replied Alcarinë for everyone at the table. “Bring a blanket or something if you’re going outside.”

Oromë turned to Tyelkormo. 

“Would you care to go up to the roof? Or just another room?”

“Why in Eru’s name would I not want to go sit on the roof, alone, with you? Wait, are drinks still not allowed on the roof? Or will I receive a second chance on that front?”

Cúnetamo seemed to pause and consider it. Finally, he sighed. 

“Fine. But if you fall off and break your arm again, there won’t be any third chances.”

“Understood.” Tyelkormo grabbed his drink, then paused and grabbed a bottle too, before turning to Oromë. “To the roof we go!”

“Exuberant and overeager,” said Oromë, but a smile played on his lips as Tyelkormo took his hand and pulled him away with a laugh. 

Hrávo’s jealousy raged. 

***

Tyelkormo was wrapped under a fur blanket, his head resting on Oromë’s shoulder, next to the vala he had missed for so long, both in life and in death. He drew in a breath and was met with the scent of the woods, of the forest, the memory of green grass and clear skies above the trees, of running with a bow strapped to his back, smiling. He had almost forgotten. He had forgotten. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

“You were forgiven a long time ago, Tyelko. By me, and by all of the hunters.”

He nodded. The moon shone down on them, and somehow it felt brighter than Tyelkormo had ever seen it. He took a sip out of the bottle and relished how strong it was. 

“I thought of you often,” Tyelkormo said. “When I looked up at the moon. It was- when it rose, for us, in Beleriand, it was like hope. Like the Valar hadn’t totally abandoned us. It- I thought- I used to stare up at it at night and think that maybe, just maybe, you were still watching over me. After a while, you were all the hope I had left.”

Oromë pulled him closer. 

“I missed you, too.”

They sat in silence for a while more, staring up at the harsh glow of the moon. Gently, slowly, Oromë wrapped an arm around Tyelkormo’s shoulder and kept it there, a steady weight. 

“Will you come back to the Hunt?” Oromë asked quietly. 

“I…” Tyelkormo began. “I want to. But not right now. I wish to make amends first. With Olwë. With Thingol. With my mother. And I wish… I wish to prove myself first, you know? Prove that I’ve changed from- that I am better than the person I was when I died, prove myself worthy of once more being your hunter. I know I referred to myself as your most beloved hunter, earlier, however...”

Oromë nodded. “I understand. Eventually, then. But know that no matter where you are, your seat at the table will be empty unless you choose to sit in it. You will always have a place with the Hunt.”

“Thank you,” Tyelkormo said. 

The quiet returned, but only briefly. Tyelkormo mumbled something under his breath, turning away.

“What did you say?” Oromë asked.

“Will I still have a place with you?” Tyelkormo said again, voice barely audible. 

“Oh, Tyelko.”

“I- I’ve done so much wrong. And the Hunt is one thing, I can- I can prove myself to the Hunt. But I- I didn’t even say goodbye to you, I just packed up and left, and I made so many- so many mistakes. So if- if you don’t want me like before, I’ll understand.”

“Tyelko…” Oromë said, reaching over to cup his jaw and turn Tyelkormo to face him. “Tyelko, will you please look at me?” He asked when he refused to meet his eyes. 

Slowly, Tyelko met Oromë’s eyes. 

“Tyelko, I will always want you. You made mistakes, but hasn’t everyone else?”

“I killed people, Oromë. Innocent people. And... I've wronged so many- there are so many things I wish I could take back.”

“And you have just told me that you will put making amends for that before doing anything that will make you, specifically, happy. You made mistakes and you’re doing your best. I, personally, think that is an incredibly attractive quality in an elf.”

Tyelkormo, despite himself, cracked a small smile. 

“So you would have me?” He asked.

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

Tyelkormo smiled, handsome and brilliant and brighter than the moon. Oromë pulled him as close as he could and pressed their lips together. 

Then the bottle slid off of the roof and landed on the cold, hard earth with an excessively loud crash.


	2. uncertain

Tyelkormo came and went, never staying for less than a week and never for more than a month at a time. The lord Oromë seemed thrilled always, and devoted the majority of his time to Tyelkormo, asking him about his path to redemption, inquiring after his friends and family, kissing him often between sentences. They swam together in the summer, walked through the forest in the fall and admired the changing colours of the leaves, drank hot beverages together when it was cold and Tyelkormo’s nose and the tips of his ears had turned pink.

It took Hràvo months, therefore, to notice the tension between them. That the lord and his favourite hunter never touched unless with lips, the awkward silence that befell them whenever Tyelkormo announced the engagement, and later the marriage of his younger brother. How they never spoke of romance and love -- it was so clear to Hràvo that Oromë was in love with the hunter, with Tyelkormo whom he so abhorred. But the words were never spoken aloud. They laughed together, joked together, shared meals and looked at the other as though their smile was the sunshine that lit up the world. But the expression of ardent love was never spoken into existence.

It confused Hràvo. Had it been his place, his love for Oromë instead of Tyelkormo’s, he would have proclaimed it every day, shouting from the rooftops, telling anyone and anything that he had snared the heart of the lord of the forest. 

He loathed Tyelkormo. Loathed how little esteem he seemed to hold Oromë in. Loathed his pride in his name, loathed the way he held Oromë’s love and would not express any affection in return. 

He would do something, certainly, to rid Oromë of his favourite, most selfish hunter.

***

Oromë had noticed the tension, too. It hurt him, for a reason he could not quite place but decided was likely to do with the strange pain in Tyelkormo’s eyes when he spoke of how his siblings had fallen in love, had found elves to wed and to adore eternally, that it was to do with the way Tyelkormo seemed just about ready to go further, to let Oromë profess his love, but a second later the spark of love behind his eyes would shut off, replaced with tense pride and a refusal to do anything more than simply sit in silence and talk until the early morning hours. That it had to do with the fact that Tyelkormo always shied away from talking about Oromë’s valarin siblings. 

There was little Oromë could do. There was no broaching sensitive topics around Tyelkormo Turkafinwë - to do such would only add fire to his discontent, create arguments that could tear down a house with their force. And Tyelkormo would seethe and slam the door behind him and not return for weeks, which was of course something Oromë could not abide. 

It would remain to him, therefore, a mystery to figure out on his own.

***

Tyelkormo Turkafinwë was not quite certain of what he was doing.

He had made amends to the best of his ability. This was good.

He was on good terms with his family. This was good.

He was speaking to his friends regularly. This was good.

He spent most of his time kissing an enemy of his father and the brother of the god who had damned his people and, more importantly, his entire family. This was… confusing. 

There were no words for Tyelkormo to adequately describe what he felt for Oromë. Surely, he knew, it rivaled the love that Morifinwë felt for his wife, that Findarato felt for Amarie. He did love Oromë. But… was he disgracing his father’s legacy? Letting him down? If his father could see him now - would he be disappointed, angry, disgusted? 

It did not help to know that, should his father’s release from the Halls be up for debate, Tyelkormo did not know that Oromë would vote in his favour. 

Tyelkormo found he could not bear to think of such a thing, to think of the one he loved deciding to damn his father to the eternal prison that Tyelkormo had loathed his entire stay in, to think of his father disapproving of the one great love of his life. Yet his thoughts led him there, time and time again. 

To say it was something he thought about often was an understatement. 

And always, it felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over his head, stopping him in his very tracks. The trickle of guilt pooling in his stomach, his repulsion when he found himself, as if waking up, with his mouth against Oromë’s. 

It was times like now, when the very thought of being with Oromë filled him with shame at his own feelings, at the path his heart had brought him on, that he spent time with his elder brothers. Maitimo and Makalaurë had always been there for him. 

“Tyelkormo, art thou?” Maitimo asked, waving a hand in front of his face and shocking him back to reality. “You seem lost in thine own designs.”

“No, I’m alright, I simply…” To Tyelkormo’s shame, he felt tears beginning to prick at his eyes. Maitimo’s face contorted into worry. 

“Good brother mine, what troubles you so?” Maitimo said, brow furrowed as he pulled his third brother closer to him.

“Eru above, Maitimo, it’s the fourth age. Stop talking like an ancient noble,” said Makalaurë, who hadn’t quite caught on and had yet to lift his head from the sheet music he was poring over.

“I am an ancient noble, born in the glory years of Aman, when Laurelin and Telperion blossomed and filled the world with great light. But come off it, brother, and come soothe thy third sibling, for I fear he is greatly troubled.”

Makalaurë looked up, and his face instantly mirrored Maitimo’s. Tyelkormo’s bottom lip quivered and suddenly Makalaurë was at his other side and Maitimo had covered him with a blanket, warm and red and soft against his shoulders. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Makalaurë asked gently. “Or… should we get mother, or Curvo?”

“I just- I just-” Tyelkormo tried to say, but speaking only seemed to make his eyes water further. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t know what to do about what?” Makalaurë asked.

“I… I love him, but I…” Tyelkormo said, and a tear rolled down his cheek. 

Makalaurë pulled him into his arms and Tyelkormo sniffled, clinging to the elder brother who had held him when he was a baby and comforted him throughout his life. 

“You’re okay, Tyelko. You’re okay,” he soothed. Maitimo ran a soothing hand through his hair and Tyelkormo felt suddenly that he was extremely grateful for his brothers. 

“Who is it that you love, Tyelko?” Makalaurë asked gently. “We won’t judge you, or be mad. Your heart is your heart, I simply wonder who has stolen it from you.”

“And, of course, we shall be thy older brothers and may become slightly overprotective of thee, but that’s only to be expected,” added Maitimo. 

Tyelkormo, despite himself, laughed breathlessly. Then he realised he was about to announce to his brothers that he was in love with one of the Valar and nerves promptly consumed him.

“Go on, Tyelko, it’s okay. We won’t even tell anyone,” Makalaurë reassured him. 

“It’s… it’s…” The thought of speaking the name out loud suddenly seemed to be too much, and gently Tyelkormo lifted himself and, with a shaking voice and cheeks red as a cherry, whispered the name of he whom he loved into Makalaurë’s ear. 

“Oh,” said Makalaurë. “Oh, well… I wish I could say it was unexpected, but in truth I think you’ve been a little in love with him since you met him, and I’m glad you’ve finally admitted it to me.” 

“What?” said Tyelkormo. 

“Who?” asked Maitimo, looking thoroughly offended at not being told who they were talking about. 

Makalaurë opened his mouth as if to speak to Maitimo, but shot Tyelkormo a look first, as if asking for permission.

“He’s in love with Aldaron,” Makalaurë stated simply when the permission had been received.

“Oh,” said Maitimo, in much the way that Makalaurë had. “Oh, well, I am hardly surprised, tis true, Makalaurë, I believe Tyelkormo has always had those feelings for Aldaron, only they had been buried deep inside his heart until now. I am glad thou hast come to the realisation, Tyelko.” 

“It isn’t a particularly new realisation,” said Tyelkormo, bitter. “In fact it’s a realisation I came to before the flight, one that was even reciprocated before the flight and is reciprocated now.”

“Then whyever, pray tell, art thou crying on the couch?” Maitimo asked.

“He hasn’t done anything untoward, has he?” Makalaurë demanded, and his hand twitched in the direction of the sword that would, long ago, have rested on his hip. “Because if he has, or if he’s made you feel pressured into doing anything, or done anything against your will, I swear I will-”

“He hasn’t!” Tyelkormo said.

“No oaths!” Maitimo cried at the same time. “But, Tyelkormo, I agree. If he’s done anything to make you uncomfortable, I’ll gather the rest of our brothers and cousins and we will-”

“He hasn’t!” Tyelkormo repeated, insistent. “And if he had, I am more than capable of taking him down myself.”

The assertion of power and confidence seemed to assuage their worries.

“Then what is it, because I’m getting confused,” said Makalaurë.

“It’s just…” Tyelkormo said, and sighed. “I feel that I’m disappointing father. Like this isn’t the relationship that he would want for me, that I’m letting him down by being with one of the Valar. And- if father’s release were to be debated upon, I don’t know that Oromë would argue in father’s favour. And I don’t know if I want to be in love with someone who would argue against my father’s returning to life, but I don’t want to ask him because I fear his answer.”

“Tyelko… father would want you to be happy, you know that.”

“Yes? You really think so? If father came back today, right now, you really believe that he’d be okay with me being with a Vala? That he wouldn’t be disappointed in my choice? Even if I was happy?” 

“I…” Makalaurë faltered. “I don’t know.”

“I believe this is a conversation for mother,” said Maitimo, and promptly left the house, presumably to go to hers.

“Mother will be disappointed in me too,” Tyelkormo muttered, tinged with bitterness.

“Now, that I can tell you is simply not true,” Makalaurë replied. 

“Why couldn’t I have been like Moryo? Fallen in love with some pretty elvish girl from a respectable family.”

“Moryo fell in love with the sister of the person who murdered Amrod, but okay.”

“Amrod killed them first.”

“She’s Turukano’s niece.”

“What- oh, right. I forgot about that part. They’re still sickeningly adorable, though. Almost as adorable as I bet their child will be.”

“Their child?”

“Moryo wants children eventually, and I don’t doubt his wife does too.”

“Ah.”

There was a beat of silence before Makalaurë spoke again.

“I bet you and Aldaron make a pretty adorable couple, too.” 

Tyelkormo snorted. 

“Yes, truly. What’s more adorable than a murderous hunter and his shapeshifting deity partner?” He said, dry as he could make his voice.

Makalaurë laughed.

“Fair point.

Tyelkormo opened his mouth to say more, but the door slammed open, revealing a flurry of red hair and also Maitimo.

“Tyelkormo Turkafinwë!” Nerdanel cried. 

“Mother,” he replied. 

“What in Eru’s name- your father, disappointed in you, good grief, boy, it’s as if you’d never met the man!”

Tyelkormo barely had time to react before his mother was sitting next to him on the couch, taking his face into her hands, his freckles mere inches from his face.

“You listen to me, Turko. Your father _loves_ you. He loves you. Plain and simple. From the moment you were begotten to the End, he loves you. No matter what choices you make, or who you fall in love with. He loves you, and you could never disappoint him, or let him down.”

It was only when Tyelkormo opened his mouth to speak that he realised he was crying for the second time in that hour. 

“Are you sure?” He choked out.

“I’m certain. And he would want you to be happy, Turko. Maybe he would take a while to warm up to whoever it is you love, but in the end he would come around when he saw that you were really, truly happy. I promise.”

Tyelkormo sniffled.

“I miss him,” he said, and it was true. He wished, more than anything, that his father was the one comforting him, that his father was the one promising that he would be able to come around to Oromë.

But his father was gone, so his mother would have to do. She wrapped him in her arms and he wondered if there was anything safer than Nerdanel’s embrace.

“I miss him too, honey. But I am sure that even in the Halls, he is thinking of his brilliant, brilliant boys.”

Makalaurë sniffled beside him.

“Now,” she said, pulling back and kissing the tops of her sons’ heads, “tell me who it is you are in love with, and tell me all about them.”

Tyelkormo’s smile was watery, but grateful as Maitimo squeezed his shoulder encouragingly.

“Well… it may or may not be one of the Valar.”

***

“Oromë,” Tyelkormo called from the bed in the cabin, twirling an arrow between his fingers as he finished sharpening it.

“Yes?” replied the Vala from down the hall, the sound of his voice followed by the sound of his antlers hitting the beam of wood on the roof, then a word which made Tyelkormo laugh despite the slight sensation of stress. 

“Come here? If you can make it unscathed,” he teased, and could practically feel Oromë’s eye roll. 

Yet, in a few seconds, there he appeared, golden eyes lit up with mirth, a pelt draped over his broad shoulders. 

“I have a question for you,” Tyelkormo said. He had attempted to make the tone light, but it reflected the seriousness the question deserved, which was to say a great amount. He set the arrow down beside him.

Oromë’s brow furrowed, worry making itself known among the mirth in his eyes as he sat down on the edge of the bed, facing Tyelkormo. 

“Ask away.”

“If… If my father’s release from the Halls was up for debate, would you argue in his favour?”

The question seemed to take Oromë aback. 

“Tyelkormo, the question of your father’s release is not up for debate, nor do I believe it will be anytime soon.”

“I know. But my question remains.”

“I would have little sway on such a council.”

“My question remains.”

“I confess I haven’t thought about it.”

“Think about it now.”

“Tyelkormo-”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, I would.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why would you argue in his favour? What would motivate you to do so?”

“I… he is your father. And while I know he has done much to be judged on, deep down inside I believe no elf should be left in the Halls forever, that it is cruel and unjust. But even if I did not believe that, I think I would argue in his favour simply because he is your father and I know you miss him. I do not want you to be missing him for the rest of your life.” 

Tyelkormo closed his eyes and took a breath, relief flooding his muscles. 

“Thank you.”

Oromë smiled at him and Tyelkormo took his hand, gently, before he pulled the Vala down for a kiss. 

Their lips met and it felt like the first time, and Tyelkormo wanted to keep Oromë against him forever, keep that taste of blood and sweet syrup on Oromë’s lips against his lips for the rest of his life. Wanted to feel the warmth of Oromë’s skin on his shoulders, running up his back, curling into his hair. 

“I love you,” he said, for the first time since he had been born again, against Oromë’s lips.

Oromë stopped short, and a wicked grin spread across his face.

“You love me?” He asked.

“I love you. I love you,” he said, a breathless whisper.

Oromë’s lips met his again, the kiss quick but not less passionate.

“I love you too,” said the Vala of the Hunt who loved none but the thrill of the chase and Tyelkormo, Tyelkormo, _Tyelkormo_.

They kissed again.

***

In the candlelight of the armoury, Hràvo sharpened one lone arrow, with a precise target in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took FOREVER i'm so SORRY  
also ive never written adult maedhros before so i decided to have some Fun and i ended up with a maedhros who,,, talks like That

**Author's Note:**

> sucks to be hravo i guess.


End file.
